Night of the Wolf
by maonsie
Summary: Post AU. The Winter was long. Longer than any that had come before it. And the North was left ravaged by it, from the Others and the traitors and the South alike. While an ill peace settled over the Seven Kingdoms, it could never last. For a Wolf still lives in the North, and revenge will come swiftly. (Rewrite pending)


**Night of the Wolf: A Tale of Revenge and the North**

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><p><em>Prologue<em>

It had changed so much whilst remaining altogether familiar. Riding through the small town outside the main walls brought back memories of running around with his sister, and borrowing freshly baked pies from the woman near the east palisade — but now the homes were but blackened and charred ruins, and the wood was already beginning to rot down to the core. Anyone who had died out here had been long gone to the wind and worn down to nothing. Only a pair of ravens kept the sombre troops marching any company, finally departing once they had crossed beyond the deeping walls.

Snow had piled higher in the yard, and even higher upon the edges of the walls. The stone in the gatehouse had given to the elements and collapsed partly on the left side. Riding deeper into the yard, his horse below him kicked at a mound revealing a long deceased corpse. Tattered fragments of a surcoat still clang to the bones — the pink patches telling enough of its previous owner. The rusted remains of a sword stabbed from its back.

On his horse, he continued riding deeper into the keep until he came across the entrance to the small grove, with its oaken doors still firmly held shut. There were more mounds of snow piled up in front of the gate though, filling the small length of yard left.

"Lord Stark, perhaps—"

"No," the lord said, holding his hand up. "No. Have your men dig this up."

"But, m'lord—"

"I want to see them."

The Stark climbed off of his horse and dropped down to the snow. His men followed suit, the sound of iron and steel heavy in the silence of the keep's yard. Gathering all of the courage he could, the lord pushed open the doors of the Weirwood grove, forcing back more drifts of snow. "By the Gods..." Throughout the grove, there was naught but the sign of struggle. And with the humidity of the spring, the corpses had long become only skeletons.

"They must've starved, m'lord. No blades or shields. Just..." The man went silent, as he too came across the smaller remains laying before them. This skeleton belonged to someone no older than a child. In fact, many of the remains were of children.

"Damn the Boltons to all the Hells imaginable," one of Lord Stark's men cried out, kneeling before the spring.

"We cannot allow them to stand for this! Petition the king, he must be made to see reason!" another of the men yelled. Murmurs of agreement came from the rest of the company.

Yet once again, the Stark held up a gauntleted hand. "My sworn brothers. Men of the North, all of you who stand among me." The Stark lord climbed onto one of the overturned trees, giving him a position over his men. All around him, he saw only the faces of those who had lost so much, who had lost their homes and lords, their wives and children. A group of soldiers from White Harbour stood out to him, the light blues and purples of their hauberks and coats standing out among the white snow beneath them. Their lord had fought bravely against the Boltons, and he knew that they would fight bravely in their lord's stead. "The Boltons will pay for this injustice! But we need not the king of the south of to fight out battles for us!

"Many of you know me only as your lord. And I have remained adamant in my submission to the Iron Throne — but, look around us! Our people lie dead here. And I will not allow their death to be in vain. Now I ask you, my loyal men, and women, of the North. I ask you this. Know me as Rickon Stark, son of Eddard and Catelyn Tully! brother of Robb and Bran, of Sansa and Arya. Will you stand with your lord against this Bolton monster?"

"Aye! We stand with you!" his men cried out in unison.

Rickon drew his sword from the scabbard, holding it out above him. It shone bright in silver. "Will you stand with your lord against this southron king who lets murderers live?"

"Aye!"" the men once again cried out.

"Lest us forget, it was Roose Bolton who killed my brother — who murdered my brother under the roof of a lord of the south! It was Roose Bolton who slaughtered the men and women and children who took refuge here, in the very halls that the Starks once proudly held! I will not sleep soundly 'til Roose Bolton is dead!"

A knight, the silver direwolf embroidered upon his green surcoat, stepped forward, drawing a great sword and kneeling before the king. "I kneel before my Lord Stark, but I will stand with your majesty, as rightful king in the North." Many of the men quickly kneeled behind him, and not before long all in the spring and even beyond were kneeling.

"Now, my brothers and sisters, will you stand with me and fight?"

"We stand with our King!" The cry was deafening, and all Rickon could do was stand and watch as his men swore to him. He'd made his move — one that would see the North once again torn apart. And silently, he gave a prayer to the Old Gods, asking them to see justice done.

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><p><strong>AN**: Once again, another proof-of-concept type of story post. I'll see if I go anywhere with it.


End file.
